Free A Walk with Jane Austen by Lori Smith Page B

anything in my life. I'm not so silly as to begin to speculate about exactly what it will mean, though I wonder whatform it will take, how long it will take to meander through casual dinners to beach trips with friends and holidays with family, to its perhaps inevitable conclusion.
    When you deal with regular insomnia and fatigue, you reach a point at which your sleeping and waking selves are very much alike. The main differences being that when you are “sleeping” your eyes are closed, and when you are “awake” you are ever so slightly more coherent. Such was my state of being this morning. On these days, I have trouble eating anything, and a flight of stairs can seem insurmountable. I find myself in a kind of stupor where time acts out of character—I may be doing nothing but daydreaming or looking at a book without actually comprehending words or shutting my eyes to pretend to rest, and hours pass in the space of what should be fifteen minutes.

    Jack's small words had been incredibly kind that last day in Oxford. He wished me good morning—such a small thing—more than once, with so much energy and attention, with such a kind look that if you saw it, you would forgive me for feeling it to be significant. There's a way couples talk to each other, and Jack started talking to me, looking at me, that particular way. To be so far at the end of myself and to be met with this affection made me feel warm and loved.
    But I knew (and felt rather spitefully) the insecurity of all the looks and all the
good mornings.
There was still the girl in North Carolina. We were still officially just hanging out, whatever that meant. I knew there was nothing solid to back up all of these small goodnesses, and so I did not always reply in kind.
    I'm afraid at times I gave him little meannesses in return.
    Generally though, I was guarded, attempting to be stalwart Elinor and not betray the depth of my feelings. We sat drinking tea at a patisserie on our way downtown to meet Spencer for lunch, and I told Jack that he and my roommate would probably have a lot in common in a teasing way that could have implied I'd like to set them up. I was almost daring him to say something, to tell me with words what his actions and looks had been saying all week. He was not entirely functional this morning either, but he didn't slip. He said nothing substantial, nothing to give me false hope.
    When we were alone close to St. Mary's, he looked at me and said, “Well, it's been great hanging out with you this week.”
    So than it
,I thought and then said, with far less warmth than I felt and with a chilled heart, “Yeah, it's been great.”
    When it came time to actually say good-bye, I left them both on a little overgrown road outside of Oxford, in front of the place they would stay overnight tonight before heading out tomorrow. Spencer kissed me warmly on the cheek and gave me a close hug, talking about how wonderful the week was and how we would definitely have to get together when we got home and how I must meet his fiancée. And then he made himself scarce—getting his luggage out of the cab, I think—and I turned and saw Jack leaning over to kiss me on the cheek.
    His bending down to meet me was so rare for this week of falling into something like love that it startled me, in the best way. We barely touched all week, Jack and I, but I remember him putting his hand on my back once, making sure I made it across the street, and our legs touched briefly by accident as we sat listening to Baroque music in the corner of candlelit Exeter College Chapel. But that's it.
    So for a moment I felt lost in him, in this simple closeness. I threw my arms around him and buried my face in his neck and kissed him just there, wherever my lips happened to be, awkwardly and spontaneously. My heart danced. My tongue was stilted as usual. I couldn't say even half of what I'd said to Spencer in genuine friendship. Jack didn't do much better. He told me we'd get together